


Orchids (and a new way to love)

by netya



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Drabble, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Manga & Anime, One Shot, Perfume, Requited Love, possible ooc, those are morbid how about uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:11:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14030919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netya/pseuds/netya
Summary: The bottle clatters from her fingers and rolls under the bed, accompanying the harsh thump as she yanks open his nightstand, and there is a small tied bundle of dark grotesque orchid heads; a half-melted white candle, a twisted metal bowl and ladle.





	Orchids (and a new way to love)

The news of the Survey Corps’ demise and the impending ceremony comes while Hitch is re-organizing the order of bottles on her vanity for the fifth time in as many days. 

_Among the deceased: SC Commander Erwin Smith. SEO Moblit Berner. Marlowe Freudenberg._

Half of them are brandy.

She drinks until she is no longer dizzy, and then, she cries.  


\--

The next day she is up at the crack of dawn and reporting for duty as usual; she is a soldier, and she will not succumb. 

They tell her to help clean his possessions anyways, and she is forced to reconcile her grief whether she wants to or not. 

Marlowe had, surprisingly, some possessions remaining in his old room, despite their stint with the survey corps; she knows Boris must have something to do it, but she doesn’t thank him, and he doesn’t mention it when he slips out of the room. He’s well aware she won’t appreciate his pity. 

Marlowe’s bed is made to regulation standard, corners tucked and pillow fluffed, whole and downy soft. The trunk at the foot of the bed holds: 

\- his spare uniform jacket, folded over a pile of gear straps  
\- three small vials: one of oil, one of ink and one of indeterminate substance  
\- one pair of shears  
\- one worn leather journal

Hitch places the bottles on the nightstand and scoops up the journal and jacket. She leaves the rest, and goes to sit on the bed, opening the book without remorse. Marlowe is dead and there will be no one to remember him fondly, save herself. He can’t yell at her for wanting to read it now, anyways. 

The contents of the journal are, to her surprise, sparse; she expected worn pages with his neat ink-thick passages of handwriting, not a collection of – petals. Petals, dried flower petals, fluttering into her lap and staining their pages colored with faded purples and oranges and pinks, crumpled smears of green where their stems have molded away. 

She brushes the disintegrating folioles from her lap and holds the journal above her head, frowning. There is a little block of text under each flower, bullet points, and she flips back to the start with disappointment until in her absent-minded scanning, she sees her name, bolded with ink so heavy it’s bled together. 

_**Hitch,** _ it reads, _wore something sweeter today (in the rain) so it doesn’t fade. The sweeter the flower, the stronger scent it must have… (?)_

And underneath:

_Annie says she uses "purple bottles" on rainy days, lilac or lavender. It was so pungent, though, I wonder if it was orchid? That will be substantially harder to find, but it doesn’t surprise me that she’d have some._

Hitch looks down at her lap. There are three petals of pressed lilac and two sprigs of dried lavender amongst the scattering of floral remains covering her thighs and the bedspread. Why was Marlowe talking to Annie about perfume? 

She goes back to reading. 

_Found some dandelions clustered under Wall Sina today, while on patrol. I didn’t investigate until after, though I find I regret it, I would have had more time. I doubt anyone would have noticed._

The fragile yellow petals are so crushed, she’d initially mistaken them for dead bugs. 

_Will experiment with these, as well. Annie said the last one ’activated her acid reflux’ and smashed the bottle in the courtyard._

Her stomach is starting to hurt. She flips the page. On the left side, there’s a dribble of magenta stain and a spot of candle-wax. The accompanying description is a full page long, but she doesn’t make it through it all.

_On our way into town, we walked by a florist’s -_ she remembers – _and while Hitch was distracted flirting with the proprietor_ – only so you would notice and say something, idiot – _I spoke to the assistant and managed to procure a sample._

____

____

_I was correct in my assumption. The strong, ambrosial scent is orchid, although I’m not certain it’s this particular breed – I expect it’s something much finer --_

Her throat stings, and she feels faint… maybe she – 

_Personally, I think this one smells much nicer. Have yet to show it to Annie, she’s out sick today; against my better judgement I asked Boris._

_He said he thinks she’ll like it, and if this means that I’m done with all the late-night perfumery; if he’d told me he was allergic, I would have stopped. He can be a bit asinine, though, even more than -_

She drops the journal to her lap and fists her fingers in Marlowe’s sheets. What the _fuck_ , Marlowe? 

She runs a shaky hand through her hair – unoiled, smelling of nothing. She hasn’t oiled it since he’s been gone, and now she never will, because there’s no point, he’s _gone_ gone, he’s dead and gone and –

– and the third unidentified bottle on the nightstand is taunting and unopened in her periphery and she lunges, uncorks it and sniffs and empties the saccharine, amateur perfume onto the bed with a strangled shriek. It stains the grey bedspread, a small spreading pool of sweet oil that Marlowe must have made for her, that he _made_ and gathered and melted and boiled himself, because he liked how her hair smelled, because he _always noticed what she wore even if he never showed it_ because he is a _stupid idiot oblivious boy_ who will never know that she only made herself reek like a tart because she wanted his attention and will never ever know that she _knows --_

The bottle clatters from her fingers and rolls under the bed, accompanying the harsh thump as she yanks open his nightstand, and there is a bundle of dark grotesque orchid heads; a half-melted white candle, a twisted metal bowl and ladle. 

She drops to her knees and fumbles under the bed, reaching for the mocking glass vial, but it skitters away from her slippery fingers and she snarls, eyesight blurrier by the moment. Fucking - there! She grasps it, stands, whacks her head on the opened drawer and collapses into a trembling ball with the vial clutched tight between her palms. 

_Marlowe. Marlowe Marlowe Marlowe Marlowe’s first – his last – for her._

She cries, the scent of salt and misery flooding the room like water, until the thick taint of orchids is coated and covered and she can no longer smell a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critique as always appreciated!  
> un-beta'd, mistakes are my own! I admittedly have only a rudimentary knowledge of perfumery


End file.
